The Lost Night (18 page)

“Those two kids have griffin tattoos,” Rachel said. “The image is the same as the figure on the ring that Lancaster wore the day I met with him. That can’t be a coincidence.”

“No. There’s a link between the three of them. Now I need to find it. It shouldn’t be too hard to break them.”

Rachel frowned. “Break them?”

“Make them talk.”

“No, probably not.” Rachel watched him uneasily. “What, exactly, do you plan to do to make them talk?”

“Relax, I’m not going to torture
the kids any more than I already have, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

She perked up immediately and gave him an approving smile. “Good.”

He wrapped one hand around the cup. “It won’t be necessary.”

She stopped radiating approval. “I see. That’s the only reason you don’t intend to subject them to any more of your talent? Because you think you can get the information you want without scaring them half to death?”

“Something tells me that’s a trick question,” he said.

“Not really.”

But it was and damned if he was going to answer it. He did not like it that her faint air of disappointment bothered him. He reminded himself that even though she had been out in what she called the mainstream world for a while, she’d lived a very sheltered life.

When he inhaled the aroma of the gently steaming tisane, however, he immediately felt better about himself and more optimistic about everything else, including his odds of finding the answers he sought. He could not identify the herbs but he liked the spicy fragrance they produced. He liked it a lot. There was something clean, centering, and invigorating about their scent. He could feel the pleasant effects across all his senses. He took a deeper breath.

“Smells good,” he said.

“I’m glad you like it.” Rachel rewarded him by looking pleased. “Those herbs resonate nicely with your aura.”

He glanced at the
jars on the counter. “You sure they’re all legal?”

She gave him a serene smile. “Do you care?”

“Not right now. Is this cup of tea going to cost as much as the last one?”

“Anything that is worthwhile comes with a price,” Rachel said demurely.

“Sounds like another quote from the Principles.”

“I’m afraid that bit of wisdom is much older than the philosophical tenets of the Principles.”

He took a swallow. It tasted as good as it had the first time he had tried it in the bookshop café. It was as if Rachel had distilled the essence of sunshine and rain. The stuff rezzed all his senses in a subtle way.

“You know, this tea is actually worth ten bucks a cup,” he said.

Rachel laughed. “I’m glad you agree with my pricing strategy.”

He studied the amber-hued brew. “Could you create a tea like this for one of the guys you call the real monsters? Lancaster, for example?”

“No. I could create a tisane that would have a sedating effect or one that would act like caffeine on someone with Lancaster’s aura. But I couldn’t brew a drink that would balance his energy field for even a short period of time because there’s an entire chunk of his spectrum that is simply dead. There is nothing that will harmonize a psi-path’s aura.”

“But you could poison a monster.”

“Yes.” She watched
him drink. “I could poison him. But as I told you, killing, no matter how justified, exacts a heavy psychic toll.”

“Except for the monsters,” Harry said. “They can kill or damage without remorse and without taking any psychic damage.”

“Because they are already damaged.” Rachel moved one hand. Her bracelet jangled lightly. “That’s what makes them monsters.”

He lounged back in his chair and stuck his legs out under the table. “You know, you could make a fortune selling your teas and tisanes on the mainland.”

“Sadly, it’s not that easy. Each batch has to be individually blended to suit the customer’s aura. There’s no way to go into mass production. What’s more, an individual’s aura is never static. The oscillation of the currents is affected by any number of factors like age, health problems, and emotional issues. Even the weather has an effect. The blend that is beneficial one day may not be so effective the next day or next week.”

“Okay, I can see the problems involved,” he said. “Sounds like the best way to make real money off your products would be to charge a lot more than you do for each individually blended batch. Make everyone pay ten bucks a cup or more.”

She shook her head. “No. That approach would mean turning away too many people who need my brews but can’t afford them.”

“Didn’t think you’d go for that business plan.”

She made
a face. “Making a lot of money is not a big priority for those of us who were raised in the Community.”

“Strange. For those of us in the Sebastian family, making a lot of money has always been a major priority.”

“Maybe because your family has a talent for it. Mine doesn’t, trust me.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

It was good to sit here with her like this, he thought. He drank some more of the brew and enjoyed the gentle stirring of his senses.

“I wonder where Lancaster got the hired muscle,” he said after a while. “That pair sitting in the Shadow Bay jail this morning look like they came from the streets, but they don’t have the vibe of hardened criminals. And what’s with the griffin tats?”

“Some kind of gang symbol?” Rachel suggested.

Harry pondered that. “Maybe. But why would a slick con man like Lancaster get involved in a low-rent street gang? Doesn’t feel like his style.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “It’s not. But there is another kind of organization that fits with Lancaster’s para-psych profile perfectly. A cult.”

“Yes.” Harry sat forward abruptly, automatically reaching for his phone. He stopped, irritated, when he remembered that the phone service was still out. “No way to research that angle until we can get online or make a call to the mainland, but it makes sense. A cult that pulls in young street toughs would provide an excellent source of muscle for a guy like Lancaster, especially if he used the operation
to recruit kids like those two, who both have a little hunter talent.” He finished the tisane and got to his feet. “I’m going to talk to that pair we’ve got locked up.”

“Okay, but I’ve got to warn you, I don’t think you’re going to get any useful answers from them, regardless of whether or not you use your talent.”

“Why not?”

“You saw them this morning. They were dazed and bewildered. They didn’t seem to remember anything of what happened.”

“They were faking it.”

“I don’t think so,” Rachel said. “I got a brief look at their auras last night and again today. There was something odd about some of the currents in both spectrums. I think you should let me observe the boys when you question them.”

“Now they’re just boys? What happened to young toughs and thugs?”

Rachel flushed. “I don’t know. They just seemed awfully young and very scared this morning.”

She was right, but that didn’t mean they weren’t young, scared thugs.

“What good will it do to read their auras?” he asked.

“I might be able to provide you with additional information.”

He thought about it. Maybe it was the effects of the tisane but it sounded like a reasonable suggestion.

“More information is always good,” he said. “But I can’t put you behind a one-way observation window. The facilities at the local
police station don’t run to those sorts of amenities. You’ll have to sit in on the questioning.”

“That’s fine. I don’t like to work through glass, anyway. You know how it is with glass when it comes to the paranormal.”

He nodded. “Unpredictable.”

Everyone with an ounce or more of talent knew that in the field of para-physics, glass was one of the least understood materials because it possessed properties of both crystals and liquids, to say nothing of its reflective and refraction qualities. In addition, there were an almost unlimited number of variations of glass and glasslike substances ranging from the naturally fused versions such as obsidian to precision optics.

“Glass tends to distort aura readings because it masks some portions of the spectrum and it often alters the colors of certain bands of energy,” Rachel said.

“All right, you can sit in when I do the questioning,” he said. “But let’s get one thing clear. No matter what happens or what is said, you are not allowed to interrupt. Understood?”

“Absolutely,” she said a little too quickly. “I understand that you’re the expert when it comes to that sort of questioning.”

“Uh-huh.” Keeping her quiet while he was grilling the pair was going to be a problem. He pushed that issue aside and began to pace the kitchen. He needed a strategy before he confronted the two firebombers. “At this point, all we’ve got linking Vince and his pal to Marcus Lancaster are those tats.”

“And the fact that you
were their target.”

He thought about that. “Maybe it’s all connected.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet, but it feels like there must be some link.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Rachel said. “Meanwhile, there’s something you should keep in mind about guys who go into the cult business.”

“What?”

“At the start, they view their organizations as profitable power trips. But sooner or later they start to believe their own press.”

There had been no
word from Rainshadow for nearly twenty-four hours. All Marcus Lancaster had been able to discover was that a storm in the Amber Sea had knocked out communications on the island. It had been difficult getting even that minimal amount of information because the clinic severely restricted access to outside news. Under normal circumstances, he relied on reports from his associate on the island, but now those had been cut off.

His intuition told him that something had gone terribly wrong. He could not let her escape.

“Tell me about your recurring nightmare,” Dr. Oakford said. “The one you say you’ve had ever since childhood.”

Marcus forced himself to pay attention. It was unsettling to discover that he needed to concentrate in order to employ his talent
today. He should have been able to deal with Oakford without even having to think twice about it.

He must have done a halfway decent job of concealing his inner agitation, though, because Oakford was clearly oblivious. He conducted the therapy session in the same superficially calm, emotionless tone that he always employed. Marcus was not fooled. He could read voices and faces the way others read GPS maps. Beneath the surface of Oakford’s well-modulated, blandly professional speech patterns, currents of anticipation were infused with the need for positive feedback.

Marcus reminded himself not to smile. Smiling was not an appropriate response in this particular situation. What was the matter with him today? He had been handling Ian Oakford and the other members of the staff with exquisite ease ever since Rachel had left the clinic. He had been biding his time, performing the role of the model patient brilliantly and always,
always
keeping in mind that it was in his own best interests to remain at Chapman until the project on Rainshadow was completed.

It was getting increasingly difficult to fake his diagnosis, though. Today he had to rez a little talent just to get himself into the part. It was critical that he remain in character because Oakford wanted to talk about the recurring dream. That was dangerous territory because the dream was linked to his childhood.

He had gone to great lengths to bury his past—quite literally. Now here was Oakford trying to pry open the places where he kept his secrets.

Truth be told, the
memories were very good. What a rush it had been coming into his talent as a teen, Marcus thought. What kid wouldn’t have reveled in the realization that he could make almost anyone believe almost anything, at least for a while? And what young male wouldn’t have savored the delights of being able to manipulate any girl into bed?

Later, in his early twenties when he discovered that he could pull off the perfect scam—that he could persuade seemingly intelligent, well-educated, sophisticated investors to trust him with their money—he thought he had found his true path in life. For a while he had convinced himself that the exhilarating sense of power that he experienced every time he added another financial trophy to his growing empire was enough.

But it wasn’t enough. He had begun to wonder if anything would ever be enough.

It was not until fate had led him to Rachel Blake that he had comprehended the shattering truth. She was what he required to fulfill his destiny.

“I’ve had the nightmares for years,” Marcus said. “They started when I was sent to the orphanage. I was twelve years old.”

Dr. Oakford consulted his notes. “That happened after the fire that destroyed your family’s home and took the lives of your parents.”

“Yes.”

Oakford occupied the chair on the opposite side of the table, the same chair that Rachel had sat in a few weeks ago.

When this was
all over, Marcus thought, Oakford was going to suffer an unfortunate accident.

“Walk me through your recurring dream,” Oakford suggested.